Thoughts from a Bookstore
by Erra
Summary: One shot. Hermione contemplates the end of the war and what it means in the context of her own life.


July had arrived quietly. May and June had meshed together, creating a dreamy blur of memories for Hermione. She barely remembered the explosion of media attention, the quiet journey to Australia, or the trips she had taken to the cemetery.

She had gone on a walk to the bookstore near her house. Her feet had led her to the classics section. Hermione reached out to the bookcase, her fingers resting on the shelf. She breathed in the smell of the books. Vaguely, she realized that her father was probably cooking dinner soon. Her mother was probably in the garden. Her parents were waiting for her at home.

Hermione glanced at the wide windows in the back of the store, making a mental note of an alternate exit before she could stop herself. She closed her eyes tight and tried to forget it. Ever since the beginning of sixth year, it was something she had always done automatically. It was hard to remember that she didn't need to anymore.

Hermione made her way through to the back. She had come in with no intention of buying anything, but now that she was in the store, she realized she kind of wanted to. Before, there had been no time, no practical use to read books that weren't on defensive spells or useful potions.

Time was a hard thing to grasp, now that she had hold of it. It had been hard, over the past two months, to make the switch from the mindset she had had before. After all, things had changed so quickly. At this time last year, things had been radically different. She had been packing her things, putting away her old life. She had been at the Burrow. She was with Harry. With Ron. Except, she supposed, that hadn't changed. Now, she was _with _Ron.

The other day, she had sat in her backyard for the entire day. She had sat under the shade and sorted through her old school things. Then, she had fallen asleep in the afternoon light and woken up in time for dinner. Hermione felt like time was enveloping her in a way she had only believed possible in the summer after her first year at Hogwarts. It was comforting and terrifying at the same time.

Without thinking, Hermione grabbed a book that looked interesting off of a shelf in front of her. She let it sit in her hands, weighing it. It was heavy. Heavy was good. Heavy was solid, present. Hermione tried to imagine herself reading it. Carrying it places. How long had it been since she had read a real book? She had been busy, rebuilding her life, repairing Hogwarts, going to Ministry meetings. Burying the dead.

She would read this book. She would go home and let herself become attached to the pages and let herself imagine the inky text as she pleased. And then, when the time came for dinner, she would put down the book and let it wait on her desk (or perhaps her bed) until she returned. And she would read until she fell asleep.

Hermione walked up to the queue for the cashier. A gust of warm air came in through the door as Hermione waited to make her purchase. A little girl around five years old came into the store with her mother. The girl walked with purpose. Hermione watched as the girl walked to the children's section and opened a picture book. The line inched forward and the girl pressed her hands on the pages of her book.

Hermione paid for her book and turned back towards the girl, who was still reading. Hermione's vision began to blur. Hermione lifted her hand to her face and was surprised to find that her cheeks were damp. Hurriedly, she wiped her tears away with her hand and hugged her bag closer to her body, making her steps quicker as she made her way out of the store and down the sidewalk. There was no reason to cry, really-she wasn't sad. In fact, Hermione mused as she looked down at her sandals treading on the concrete of her little town, she was the happiest she had ever been.

"Hermione!" a voice behind her called out. She turned her head.

A boy with red hair and lanky legs was jogging towards her, waving. "Wait!"

"Ron?" Hermione said, barely believing it. "What are you doing here?"

Ron caught up. "What do you think? I came to your house and your parents told me you'd gone out, so I went looking for you!"

"Why? I've only been gone for a week-Ron, I'm coming to visit _you_ in a few days!"

Ron laughed. "Oh, I had no idea! Glad that's all settled, then. I'll see you. Nice chat!"

"Is something wrong?" Hermione added, her hand reaching for his freckled one. She grabbed it and he stared at her hand, seeming to realize something. His fingers wrapped around hers.

"I wanted to see you," he said, more quiet now. He looked straight at her. Hermione suddenly understood. She hadn't been away from both Ron and Harry for more than a few days in a very long time.

Ron's eyes searched her face. "Have you been crying?" Ron asked, his voice low.

Hermione looked down at her shoes. "It's nothing."

"Come off it."

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. There had been a time when she would not have said anything. But then she realized that she was still holding Ron's hand.

"It's stupid," she said hastily.

"Nothing you do is stupid."

Hermione looked at Ron, taking in the image of his face in the light of the sun going down. His eyes were earnest, glowing from what he had just said to her. She knew, just then, that she would never become tired of looking at Ron, even though she had just seen him at the Burrow (as well as in the paper as she read yet another amusing editorial piece on what the media was dubbing "The Golden Trio") before she had left for her own home. How had she gotten so lucky? Ron, with his stupid, insensitive comments. Ron, with his stupid, sacrificial chess strategies. Ron, fourth-year Ron, with his even stupider face. And - so vividly, still! Ron's yells from the Malfoys' cellar. Ron, today (and always), with his uncanny ability to say what was right to her all at once, every time.

"Let's go home. It's almost time for dinner," she said. Ron paused before nodding. They began to walk.

"I'm overwhelmed," Hermione said after a few moments had passed, "by how much time we have. Have you noticed that?"

"Yes," Ron hesitated. "Is that why you were crying?"

Hermione ignored his question and asked a question of her own. "Do you think Harry and Ginny will have children?"

Ron jolted. He gave a noisy, lengthy cough before speaking. "W-what did you say?" he asked, his voice strangely high-pitched. His face had colored crimson.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron. I don't mean _now_, I mean later!"

"Dunno," Ron mumbled, his face still pink. "That's why you were crying?"

"Well, yes."

"_What_?"

"Ron," she stopped short, her hand gripping his. They stopped walking. Her brow was furrowed. "I have so much time. I can go back to school, or I could travel or get a job - I could - I could start a family one day."

Ron looked at her for a long time before speaking, letting her words sit heavy in the air before saying anything. Hermione realized, hastily, what she had just insinuated. "You could have always done that," was all he said. They started walking again.

"No, I couldn't have. I thought I'd be dead," she said.

"You still could have always done it, though."

"How?"

"Because I wouldn't have let you die!" Ron exclaimed. His ears were tinged pink. "What I mean to say - Harry and I wouldn't have let you die. If you were dead, we wouldn't have survived anyhow."

Hermione laughed. They had arrived at her house, and the smell of dinner was wafting outside from the open windows. Hermione put her hand on the handle, but before she opened the door, she turned to Ron. "I'm happy you're here."

* * *

**A/N**: I'm getting back into the swing of things, I guess? Thanks for reading.


End file.
